Chances, Lost
by radialarch
Summary: Draco doesn't think he can be saved, but that's never stopped him from hoping. / Set in Sixth Year, fairly HBP-compliant, unrequited H/D, one-shot.


**Title: **Chances, Lost

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. What do I have? Fanfiction.

**Pairings: **Implied one-sided Harry/Draco.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **Angst! Freely abused conjunctions and dashes.

**Wordcount: **~800

**Summary: **Draco doesn't believe he can be saved, but that's never stopped him from hoping.

A/N: Thought-italics may snarl up sentences when least expected. Stupid plot-bunnies.

* * *

><p><strong>I.<strong>

"_Legilimens!_" And then his aunt is prowling through his mind, snatching at memories and discarding them contemptuously. Images flit past his eyes—the Manor lit up at Christmas, his mother's rose gardens, then the first sight of Hogwarts and not far behind are needlessly green eyes and needlessly messy hair and _no you can't go there pleasepleaseplease—_

—then he's on the floor panting as Aunt Bellatrix smiles. "Very good, Draco," she croons while he wills himself not to be sick. "You've a talent, it seems."

"You—you could've warned me," he gasps, wondering how much she saw, how much she _knows_, but she only giggles sharply and _why doesn't anyone else notice the madness edging the sound__—_

"Always be prepared," she starts before something in his face stops her from going on. "Get up," she says instead, "we'll try again."

So he slowly pushes himself to his feet, and even though she doesn't apologize, she doesn't remark on the tears on his face, either.

* * *

><p><strong>II.<strong>

Something white flashes through the air, something Draco instantly identifies as Harry Potter's beat-up trainers. (How many times had he stared at them in Potions, because he could never chance looking up?) So he lies back and lets Pansy fuss over him to her heart's content, all the while staring at the luggage rack wondering what _Harry's _hands would feel like running through his hair.

And he tells the others to go with only a vague plan to talk to Harry, if only for one swift soaring moment. (They've never talked; they've hurt and scorned and winged insults at each other, but they've never _talked_.) But they aren't friends, and Harry's the reason why. And in a white-hot flash of anger _and why won't you understand _he Petrifies the other boy and leaves him there, with only a sliver of regret at breaking his nose.

Harry comes back, though. He always does.

* * *

><p><strong>III.<strong>

They're saying Harry asked that Lovegood girl to Slughorn's Christmas party. This he has to go see for himself, see how Harry looks at her. (Somewhere along the way he'd started thinking of Harry as _his_, and he _wants, needs, feels _it to be true.)

Harry's smiling at her when they meet, and Draco bites on his lip just to keep from screaming. The two pass the mistletoe without a second glance _it's all right, they're just friends_ and he let himself start breathing again. Yet suddenly Lovegood's going one way while Harry heads for Granger, and in the sharp spike of jealously his Disillusionment drops.

Mrs. Norris hisses at his feet and Filch comes to drag him off, but all of Draco's rage is aimed somewhere else.

* * *

><p><strong>IV.<strong>

Draco swallows the urge to scream at the Cabinet, at the books strewn uselessly around him, at the Dark Lord himself for asking this when he already knows it's impossible. But failure would mean death. He's not afraid of his own anymore—he's even grown rather resigned to the idea; but his mother doesn't deserve to die just yet.

He fleetingly wonders whether Harry Potter, Saviour of Everyone, would have ever helped him if only he'd known the right words. But he hasn't the faintest clue where to find them, and it's too late now, has been for so long.

For the thousandth time he mutters a spell at the Cabinet; there's a low grinding sound, and for the thousandth time hope beckons to him.

* * *

><p><strong>V.<strong>

He's not alone. A shock of panic sweeps through him and he turns, wand in hand and a curse on his lips. And then he sees those eyes that are so uniquely _Harry_ and back away, but it's already too late—he's crossed his Rubicon and there's no way out.

The mirror behind him shatters from a misfired hex and Draco is suddenly showered with glittering shards. It occurs to him that somewhere, a deity is probably laughing at this perfect set-up: his life, the mirror, both falling into pieces. A smile twists at his mouth and all he wants to do is surrender (and he is just so _tired_ of living), but Harry won't leave, spells flying fast and wild and _where were you when you could have saved me—_

The _Crucio_ slips off his tongue without conscious thought, and then his world is a haze of pain_—_

* * *

><p><strong>VI.<strong>

He's so close.

Just two words and he'll be safe—but no, that's wrong, he's never going to be safe, no matter how far he runs—

—he swallows, his wand pointed at Dumbledore's chest, and this is the path he'd trodden for so long _isn't destiny just another word for our choices made—_

—still there's no fear in those blue eyes as the man offers sanctuary, words he'd dreamt of hearing so many times, and_ yesyesyes _rises unbidden in his throat—

—_do you think I can be saved, Harry? _

_Fin.  
><em>


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